The Hole in My Soul
by KinkNurse
Summary: When Michael Dimir attempts suicide at his church, Katja Kinderen is the ICU nurse who cares for him while he recovers in the hospital. Little did she know how much her life would change when Kingsley Edge and Father Søren Stearns attend to Michael's safety.
1. Chapter 1

**The Hole in my Soul**

_There's a hole in the… soul in the shape of a shot glass, one that has a cracked bottom and can never be filled no matter how much whiskey is poured into it._

– Brian McDonald, _**My Father's Gun**_

**Kingsley**

I'm at the Eighth Circle, on my knees and in the middle of a blowjob for one fucking hot Dom when I smell King's boots nearby. My kitty Kat bell suddenly makes its familiar jingle, causing me to smile around the cock in my mouth. It's Monsieur K—he can't resist ringing my bell whenever he sees it. It's his little way of reminding the man whose cock is in my mouth that while I may be serving him for the moment, my body, heart and soul belong to Kingsley Edge alone.

Dissatisfied with my reaction, Monsieur K grabs my hair to get my undivided attention. He knows how much I love it when he does that. Lifting me to my feet, he leans over and whispers into my ear.

"Your bell rang, Kitty Kat. An Angel just got his wings."

He uses my hair to yank my head in the direction of his gaze.

_No_.

It can't be.

But that sleek, long black hair, those haunting silver eyes—I'd know them anywhere. A smile blooms on my face as I make the realization.

It's Michael Dimir. I never forget a face, especially not one as beautiful as that.

He's grown considerably and he's even prettier than he was when we met in less happy times. In fact, _we_ didn't really meet. He doesn't even know who I am, but he was once my patient, back when he was only 14.

Dressed in white and with a healthy dose of guyliner, he's still the most beautiful boy I've ever seen. Boy is an apt description of him, for while he's certainly taller than he was, he hasn't yet lost that lovely gawkiness so many teenage boys have. The difference now is that he looks completely beside himself with happiness, and that fills my heart more than anything has in a long time. If anyone deserves to be this happy, it's Michael.

Michael is wearing a collar and there's a hand clamped tightly around it in a very possessive show of ownership. I follow the hand up to its owner's face—Griffin Fiske. Griffin's body language makes it clear that he's positively smitten with Michael. It's far more than pride; it looks like pure, unabiding love. Almost like he couldn't let go of Michael even if he wanted to, and he certainly doesn't want to.

As I take in Michael's beaming smile, I'm flooded with a sense of incredible gratitude to our Søren for saving this boy in particular. It's clear that Michael and Master Griffin have found an absolution of sorts in one another.

Seeing Michael again brings me back to the moment when I first met him, under decidedly less happy conditions. In fact, it was a day that both of our fates would change significantly—Kingsley Edge and Father Søren Stearns came into our lives.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Hole in my Soul**

_There's a hole in the… soul in the shape of a shot glass, one that has a cracked bottom and can never be filled no matter how much whiskey is poured into it._

– Brian McDonald, _**My Father's Gun**_

**Michael**

"Hey, Kat, I need you to take an admit from the ER."

I look up at the clock, noticing that it's 1:00 AM. Nothing good ever happens at this time of night. It's either an accident, alcohol poisoning or a suicide. I don't feel alert enough to take a patient who is that critical, but I also know from experience that the second my patient arrives, I'll be ready. All it takes is a quick jolt of adrenaline to get me into the zone.

"So, what is it?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"Suicide."

Shit. They're always gut-wrenching, but especially true when you work in pediatrics. No one that young should feel like they have to give up on life.

"Drug ingestion? Trauma?"

"Trauma—slit wrists. He's been given a couple units of blood already in the ER and you'll need to hang another right when he gets here. I'll make sure the release gets sent the to blood bank."

"Mmm," I intone as a form of acknowledgment. "How old?"

"Fourteen."

"Jesus," I shudder. "Do you know his hemoglobin level?"

"Not sure what it is right now, but it was just under seven on his arrival."

"Holy shit."

The adult male body holds approximately twelve pints of blood. You only need to lose about 40% of your total blood volume for it to be lethal. A hemoglobin level less than seven is low enough to be nearly dead. I have no idea what his levels are now, but to raise the hemoglobin level by two to three points, it takes a unit of blood. Our goal will be to get it to climb to more than twelve, so I'm pretty sure I'll hang at least one unit of blood, if not more.

"Guess the parents are kind of a piece of work. Dad was yelling some pretty unsavory stuff at Mom down in the ER. Poor kid."

"What's the ETA?" I ask, wanting to know how much prep time I have.

"About 15-30 minutes. Hand your patient off to your partner and get ready for—" she pauses to read a sticky note fastened to the end of her finger. "Michael Dimir. We'll put him in Room 22."

I nod my head while I'm already in motion; there's nothing more to say. My brain is starting to whirr its gears, thinking through scenarios. That's how it always is—I couldn't turn it off if I tried. It's one of the reasons I'm an ICU nurse.

I log on to my computer to order up suicide carts. They're made especially for suicidal patients—nothing in them that would enable them to turn their failed attempt into a successful one. Kids are at greatest risk of a suicide attempt immediately following an unsuccessful attempt. Once I've done that, I walk into the room and remove anything and everything that could be used to harm oneself. Soap, hand gel, extra sheets all get the boot. I lock the supply cabinets so he can't get into anything there. He'll be on suicide watch, so someone will be in his room with him at all times.

There are still doctors and nurses who use restraints to keep a suicidal patient from further injuring themselves. They are padded with ties that can be strapped to the bed. We usually strap the wrists and the ankles, but Michael's wrists will be sewn up so he'll probably be strapped near his elbows. Personally, I always prefer to calm the environment in order to calm the soul. Turning down the lights, speaking slowly and softly, limiting the number of people in the room can do wonders to keep a patient safe. I can't imagine anything more damaging to one's psyche than to attempt a suicide and wake up in a loud hospital room, restrained and unable to move, surrounded by strangers. That being said, some of these kids end up hugely combative with a horrible look of desperation on their faces knowing they didn't succeed.

While I always hate to see the trauma a suicide victim can wreak on themselves, I'm grateful that my patient cut himself instead of taking Tylenol. So often, desperate kids take Tylenol as a method to kill themselves because it's cheap and readily available. 75% of all suicide attempts are from drug ingestion, but they don't always take a big enough dose to be successful. Sometimes, the body defends itself from the onslaught by causing the victim to vomit before the full dose is absorbed. Too often, we're left with a depressed/suicidal kid who then needs a liver transplant. At least Michael will only have scars to contend with. I wouldn't wish liver failure or a liver transplant on anyone.

I hear the doors to the ICU clank open at the same time my phone rings.

"This is Kat, go ahead."

"Hey Kat. Just letting you know your patient Michael Dimir is en route to you."

"Yeah, they just got here," I say with a tinge of annoyance in my voice. I should have gotten a phone report from the ER before my patient left, not when he arrives at my side.

"Great, they can give you a report."

"Yup. Got it," I hang up before I hear anything else.

I watch them wheel in the boy and he has that gray look of pallor one gets when they're near death. It's hard to describe the color except to say that you know it when you see it.

"Patient Michael Dimir, age 14. Self-inflicted bilateral lacerations to upper extremities. Arrived in ER in hypotensive crisis. Got fluid resuscitation and two units of PRBCs to achieve stabilization. Last BP was 108 over 85. Heart rate remains tachy. Received fentanyl and propofol while lacerations repaired in ER. He's still sedated, but should start to be more responsive over the next hour."

I nod my head while processing what the ER nurse is telling me. I'm working on getting Michael hooked up to the monitor so I can keep track of all his vital signs.

"Oh, and just a word of warning," the ER nurse says as he finishes up his report. "The parents are pretty wound up. We had to ask the father to hold it down."

I raise my eyebrows at that. The ER gets pretty intense in general, so when the nurse notes that someone is wound up, you stop to take note.

"Wound up. Got it. Thanks."

"Good luck. Let us know how he does, yeah?"

"Of course."

Once he's settled and I'm finally alone with him, I lean over to whisper soothingly into Michael's ear. It's something I repeat a variation of to every one my patients:

_Michael, my name is Kat. I'm your nurse, and you're in the ICU. I'm right here and I promise to protect you for as long as you're my patient. No matter what happens, we're in this together._

It's important for me to communicate this message, because I believe that no matter how sedated or out of it my patient may be, I know they can hear me on some level. I want to acknowledge that so I'm never taking anything for granted. I want this beautiful boy to understand that no matter how dire his situation may be, there is at least one person in the world who cares about him, cares what happens to him.

I start my head to toe assessment, moving to get through it quickly before his parents arrive. I take in his general appearance along with his injuries. He has thick, jet black hair, the kind many women would kill to have. It's completely tangled up from all the ER activity; I make a mental note to comb through it when I get a minute. His lips are dry, so I grab a new tube of chapstick and apply it. It would be a shame to let such beautiful, full lips get cracked. Not on my watch, anyway.

I need to check his pupil response to light and notice he has killer long lashes. God, this boy is striking. I note that his pupils are still small as pinpoints, so he's good and stoned from all the sedation he's received. I'm grateful for that, because his injuries are going to hurt like hell once he wakes up.

Noting how gorgeous Michael is, I'm even more curious about why he made a suicide attempt. I wonder if maybe he's gay, or bi, or even transgender. A lot of GLBT kids end up this way—they're three times as likely to attempt suicide as are their straight peers. For transgenders, the rate is even more extreme. I file that thought for later.

I put my stethoscope on his chest, listening to his heart and lungs, noticing his color. You can tell he was pale to begin with—his blood loss only accentuates this feature. He's tall and skinny, just starting to grow into his adolescent frame. I imagine he's probably very shy; sometimes, you get a feeling about a person.

His wrists are still covered in betadine, the orangish-brown cleaning solution we use to prep the skin surface for surgical procedures. The ER report mentioned that the cuts were particularly deep, which is why he bled so profusely. Using warm water, I wet a washcloth and clean around his sutures. The ER doc did a good job—he's going to have some nastyass scars, but they won't be too bad, considering. A rush repair isn't focused on beauty; it's focused on saving a life.

He managed to cut both of his wrists, so he must have used his non-dominant hand to make the first cut. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have been able to use his dominant hand to finish the job. I look for hesitation wounds—a shallow first cut, since they don't yet know how deeply they need to force the knife against their skin. Michael has no hesitation wounds, just two incredibly deep cuts, one on either wrist. I make a mental note to assess his nerves once he's awake for signs of damage.

Thank god he didn't get into the bathtub or cut from wrist to elbow. That alone causes me to suspect that this wasn't a well-planned attempt. That doesn't mean Michael wasn't serious, but it's different when the kid has a plan that they follow. I don't usually get to see many of those, because they don't end up in the hospital, they go straight to the morgue.

I work on Michael, carefully looking over his body for other signs of injury. Sometimes things get so hectic in the ER no one has time to look over everything carefully. In the quiet of the PICU at 1:00 AM, I have the time to really take it all in. I want to look for signs that he may have tried doing this before. Sometimes, they're habitual cutters who accidentally make a cut too deep as they try to chase their pain threshold. I notice a few scars on his arms, so I get the sense that this isn't the first time he's tried to hurt himself.

His parents arrive at the doorway and I wave them into the room. I explain the situation to them: how he's doing, what I'm doing, what they can expect. I help them to understand he's at risk for a stroke or a transfusion reaction and that he's going to need more blood products before the shift is over. I quickly dress his sutures in gauze—seeing the wounds can have a profound and traumatic effect on the family and I scold myself internally for not having covered his wrists sooner.

His mother doesn't stop sobbing the entire time she's there. I learn that she's a nurse, too, and that makes my heart break a little bit more. She already knows most of what I have to say to her, but I still need to say it. His father, on the other hand, has body language that practically screams out DISAPPOINTMENT. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who's probably the crux of lovely Michael's issues with the world.

The body language between his parents is telling, too. His mother pulls in on herself, trying to become invisible—a jumble of guilt, shame, sadness. She flinches every time he touches her. The way he holds her arm in place makes me want to smack him in the face, and I'm not a violent person by nature. Well, unless you pick on animals or children, then I'll kick your ass to the gates of hell and leave you there without looking back.

"He's nothing but a sicko, Melissa," he spews. "You know he did it just to get attention."

"Excuse me, Mr. Dimir?" I say it in a syrupy sweet voice to get his attention. When you're nice and respectful, it throws the assholes off.

"Yeah?"

"While your son might be sedated, please be assured that on some level, he can still hear you."

He just shrugs at me. Fucking_ shrugs_. In that moment, I know how to illustrate this cause and effect to him. I point my finger at the bedside monitor to show him just what it is he does to his son every time he opens his mouth.

"This is an electronic monitor. It shows us Michael's heart rate in red, blood pressure in green, respiratory rate in blue and oxygen saturation in white," I explain. "Say something. Anything, and then watch the red numbers."

"What the hell do you want me to say?" he says in a sour voice.

Michael's heart rate climbs when Mr. Dimir speaks.

I cross my arms and raise an eyebrow at him.

"What does that prove?"

I turn to Mr. Dimir and look him straight in the eyes. "Parental criticism is radioactive and has a long half-life. I don't allow anything radioactive in my patient's room unless it involves chemotherapy. Please, why don't you have a seat outside?"

"But this is my kid."

I don't justify his contempt with a reply; I merely hold out my arm to point the way out of the room.

When I look outside of Michael's room, my eyes land upon one of the tallest men I've ever seen. Even with the dimmed lights in the hallway, the man's attractiveness is clearly evident. Based upon his apparel, I can see he's a priest. He looks as though he'd like to come in. I notice that his arrival makes Mr. Dimir shut up almost instantly—thank heavens for small favors.

I turn to Michael's mother with a questioning look on my face. She nods gently her assent, so I address the priest.

"Hello, Father. Please, come in. Michael is stable but sedated for the moment."

As the priest stops to murmur a few words to the parents in a low tone, I lean over to Michael's ear.

"I promised you that we're in this together, Michael. I'll do what I can to keep this room calm."

I look up and see the priest towering over me, his presence as awesome as it is intimidating, but I'm not about to let that get to me. As an ICU nurse, I need to be firm and assertive—there are plenty of people who try to bully you or boss you around. You either learn how to stand up to those people, or you go to work somewhere else.

"Father, my name is Kat; I'm Michael's nurse tonight. He's already had a blood transfusion in the ER, and I'm about to give him another. You're welcome to do whatever it is that you do while I prepare the transfusion. The only thing I ask is that you be aware that Michael can hear you, so please try to keep your rhetoric to words that are calming and non-judgmental. He's been through a great deal today, and I don't want to hear about him going straight to hell; neither does he."

"My name is Father Stearns," he reaches out his huge hand to shake mine, and engulfs it so I can no longer see my hand at all. "I take it you're not a fan of my church."

"I'm sorry, Father, it's difficult for me to be positive when I've seen what some of your colleagues have done to patients of mine, and kids throughout the world."

He nods his head, looking weary. It's then that I see the blood on his sleeve. It's not so noticeable on the black fabric, but it's all over the white cuffs of his shirt.

My eyes dart from the bloodstains to his face as I narrow my eyes. "What happened?"

The priest looks at me for a moment then gives me a sad smile. "You think this is my fault."

"Is it?"

"The only thing I'm guilty of is not being more adamant about replacing the broken stained glass window. It had been a pet project of mine that I was pushing through the proper channels, but not fast enough, apparently."

"Oh god, he did this at church?"

"Yes. I'm the one who found him."

My gut falls to the floor at his admission. I'm ashamed of my own prejudice.

"Oh, Father, I'm sorry," I tell him, feeling incredible remorse. My eyes dart toward the chairs where Michael's parents are seated then back to Father Stearns. He nods, sadly, to acknowledge my suspicion.

"I made him leave the room. He was being a huge asshole," I half-whisper my explanation then put my hand over my mouth realizing my curse too late. My swearing is legendary, but I didn't mean to swear in front of a priest. "Sorry about that."

Father Stearns gives me a smile. "No, you were right. He _is_ an asshole."

"I see parents like that more often than I should," I tell him. "I'm sure you see all kinds of abuse, too."

"I think we just see it at different stages; you get the more desperate ones."

"Yeah, the suicides are always tough. From what I hear, Michael barely hung on in the ER. He's such a beautiful kid. It eats me up that he thought this was a good idea."

"I'm going to speak to him."

I nod my head in acknowledgement as I finish hanging more packed red blood cells for Michael.

"I'd like some privacy, please," he tells me. It's not a question.

"Of course. Just give me a second," I tell him, while I finish programming the IV pump for the transfusion.

In the hallway, Michael's father is still speaking in a raised voice, giving his wife a hard time. I'm officially pissed off now.

"Mister Dimir, you're in a pediatric intensive care ward. It's almost three a.m. You need to keep your voice to a whisper. In fact, perhaps you should go to the family lounge—the doors shut out the noise," I point toward the exit.

"I won't leave my son here alone."

"He'll be safe; I'll be in his room all night. Why don't you go try to get a little rest, okay? I'm sure it's been a long day for you," I soothe, seeing if a sympathetic approach will earn some cooperation from him.

I can see Mrs. Dimir tugging at her husband's arm, but he merely crosses his arms and stays right where he is.

Okay, so sympathy doesn't work either.

"I'm happy to call security for you, sir, if you're uncertain how to find the family lounge," I say in my most cheerful voice with a smile painted on my face, crossing my arms right back.

He gives me the angriest look I've ever seen then stomps off. When I know he's gone, I say "good fucking riddance, asshole" under my breath and turn to get to my computer. I'm going to catch up on my charting while the priest is with Michael.

Before I even set a foot forward, I see a striking, tall man with long black hair sitting at my computer with cocky smirk on his face. What the hell is going on here? I've gone for years without seeing anyone hot in the ICU, and I get these two men within fifteen minutes of each other? While the man in front of me may be fucking gorgeous, I need to know exactly who he is and how the he got in here—he doesn't have a clearance badge.

Unsmiling, I walk up to him. "You're sitting at my computer, sir."

Now that I can see him more closely, I notice that he's wearing a gorgeous suit—long coat, tailored pants, and the most beautiful pair of riding boots I've ever seen in my life.

When my eyes move up from his boots to his face, I notice his amused smile.

"You like the boots, chérie?"

Well fuck me. I took French in high school and I can tell this man's accent is genuine. "Vous êtes Français?"

"Mais bien sûr, ma belle…" he pauses, looking down at my I.D. tag which happens to rest on top of my left breast. "… _Kat,_" he over emphasizes the pronunciation as he leans over to kiss my hand. I stand there with my mouth momentarily agape, taken completely by surprise; this has never happened to me before. It takes me a few seconds to recover my senses.

"Who are you and what are you doing sitting at my work station at three in the morning? You need either a parent or employee badge to be back here," I warn.

He laughs quietly to himself. "I don't need a badge to do anything. I am Kingsley Edge," he says, as if that's some type of universal knowledge I should have.

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Edge," I say politely. He is gorgeous hot, after all. "But you're still not supposed to be here."

It's about that time I see Dr. Jacoby round the corner. He takes one look at Kingsley and freezes, terrified.

"Kat?" Dr. Jacoby says with a shaky voice.

"Yes, Jac?"

"Um, why don't you give me a few minutes here…" his voice trails off.

"Can't. I need to do some charting and keep an eye on my suicide," I explain, pointing at Michael's room. "He's getting a transfusion and I have to keep assessing him for any signs of a reaction."

Kingsley's smooth voice breaks up our conversation.

"Actually, docteur, I think I've found exactly what I need," he says, nodding over at me.

He needs me? I look outside to see if there's a full moon tonight. Nope, just a Cheshire Cat grin, my favorite kind of moon.

"Can I ask what the fuck is going on here, Jac?"

Dr. Jacoby looks like he's going to puke.

I watch as this Kingsley dude pats J on the back like a little boy and actually tells him to _vas-y._

Ouch.

"Exactly who are you, sir?"

"I told you, chérie, I am Kingsley Edge."

"And that's supposed to mean something to me?"

"Oui. If not right now, it will in the next 24 hours."

He hands me a business card. Black, with nothing more than the name _Kingsley Edge_ on it.

"When you are finished with your shift, chérie, we will talk."

"I don't even know who you are."

He sighs a bit as if he's getting tired of explaining things, when he's explained nothing at all.

"Je suis Kingsley Edge, little kitty Kat."

If anything, his exasperation makes him even hotter. I know I should be very creeped out right now, but instead I find myself incredibly aroused.

He takes my hand and kisses it again, then pokes his head into Michael's room. Without saying a word, the priest and the man in riding boots trade messages via eyebrow semaphore. At the end, Kingsley nods silently at the priest and strides away.

I go back into the room to check on Michael.

"Is, um, everything okay in here?"

"Yes," he answers with complete authority.

"So, the French dude is with you?"

The priest nods silently.

I look at him long and hard, trying to read through his intense and controlled exterior. I'm really not sure what to think. It's hard to throw me for a loop, but that's exactly the effect he's had on me tonight. As if he knows exactly what I'm thinking in that moment of doubt, he slips his hand onto my shoulder. For some reason, that's exactly the reassurance I need.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Hole in my Soul**

_There's a hole in the… soul in the shape of a shot glass, one that has a cracked bottom and can never be filled no matter how much whiskey is poured into it._

– Brian McDonald, _**My Father's Gun**_

**Kingsley**

Over the course of this strange, strange night, we manage to get Michael stable and safe. While he may have a very long road of recovery ahead of him, at least he's alive. I'll take that as a victory.

When my long shift is finally over, I remember the card sitting in my pocket. I fish it out, looking it over several times to see if there's any hidden meaning. Against my better judgment, against all reason, I call Kingsley's phone number when I get down to the street.

"Ah, chérie, you did call," he intones, but he doesn't sound surprised at all. Hmm.

"You asked me to, and my curiosity got the better of me," I admit.

"Are you curious, kitty Kat?"

"Yes, I am."

"Bien. I will be there in un moment. Look for the Rolls Royce."

"Um, what does that look like?"

"My dear, it will be the only fuckhot car with a fuckhot man in the back seat."

I snort and hang up my phone. Vain much, Monsieur Edge?

Within minutes, a Rolls Royce pulls up in front of me.

So that's what they look like.

What the hell am I doing? _Nothing yet_, I remind myself. I'm just going to listen to what Kingsley Edge has to say then I'll smile politely and leave. Even as I think it, I know that I'm full of shit.

A door opens for me and I step inside.

I glance down and see Kingsley's riding boots are still on.

"So, you really do like the boots, hmm chérie?"

I feel my cheeks flush.

"They're unusual," I hedge.

"Oui, they are. I have all my boots custom made. But kitty Kat, I can see it's more than just boots to you."

How the hell does he know that? I just glanced at them, for crying out loud.

"Nope, pretty sure they're just a pair of boots." A pair of very well made custom boots that smells incredible, I elaborate to myself.

"You needn't pretend with me, ma belle," he coos. "I can see how taken you are with them."

I shrug at his suggestion. "Okay, so I like a nice pair of boots."

"Kiss them," he commands.

"What?"

"Un bisous. On each boot."

My mouth opens, ready to hurl an insult at him, but he takes his finger and places it there to shush me.

"Do as you are told. You want to kiss them. I'm just making it easier for you," he says with such an air of authority I don't even question his words.

I'm beginning to feel like Alice when she fell down the hole to Wonderland. It's got to be my exhaustion. Dealing with the suicide attempt.

"The boots, chérie," he reminds, giving them a wiggle.

Shaking my head, I bend over and kiss his fucking boots. And god, they're like butter, so supple. They have that delicious leather smell. Yep, definitely custom made.

"You must feed the monster to keep it under control."

"I didn't know I had a monster to feed," I say, more than a little bit aroused.

"I can tell," he says, smiling at me in a way that makes me want to eat him like a piece of cake. "I can smell you all the way over there," he whispers into my ear.

Fucking hell, this man is a sexual genius. He hasn't even touched me and this is the best sex I've ever had.

"So, have you ever had sex—" He doesn't even have time to finish his sentence. I jump onto him, straddling his lap, so I can get those full lips on mine as soon as it's humanly possible.

Fuck it. This man is smoking hot. You only live once.

It's been so long since I've been kissed and I feel myself melt into him; I can easily say I've never been kissed like this before.

Despite the amazing skill displayed in this kiss, there are still words of protest bubbling around in the back of my throat, wanting to be said. However, the longer Kingsley's lips are on mine, the more I swallow the words back. A fuckhot beautiful man in a Rolls Royce wants to kiss me, then fuck me. I convince myself to suspend disbelief and enjoy this moment, because I know it will never come again.

Before I know it, Kingsley has flipped me upside down, so he's lying on top of me. I can feel how hard he is. He wants this as much as I do? Holy jesus, yes please.

His lips finally part from mine, and I let out a small, sad sigh. He whispers to me, our lips almost touching as he does. "… in the back of a Rolls Royce before?"

Huh?

Oh, right. I interrupted his question when I jumped on him. I feel a blush bloom across my cheeks.

"No, Monsieur, I've never had sex in the back of a Rolls Royce before, but there's a first time for everything," I manage to choke out.

"Such a passionate little kitty Kat," Kingsley smiles at me in a way that could melt my panties within mere seconds. He rubs my cheek with his gloved thumb and I lean my face into him enough to be able to take a secret whiff of that leather. "I think I must claim you for my collection."

My entire body tenses with his words. Collections are creepy. Visions of serial killers come to my mind as I shriek out a loud, "_What_?!"

"Shh, chérie, calme toi. Let the guard down un petit peu," he soothes. "It is not like it sounds. Come inside to see my home. This is where you will live. From time to time, I need a little nurse to work for me. You are going to be that nurse."

"But I work for the hospital—I can't work for you."

He puts his fingers under my chin. "Chérie, you will soon learn that the most important people in our city are in my pocket. I assure you that your hospital will have no issues with you working for me."

"You aren't involved in the Mafia, are you?"

"Kitty Kat, do I look like Mafia to you?"

"Um, no. Not really. But you're clearly very powerful."

"Powerful, oui. And fuckhot," he smiles at me. "I am the King of Kink."

All I can do is smile back at him. The thing is, vain though he might be, it's useless to argue with him because it's totally true.

"So, my kitty Kat, you will come to live with me in my townhouse and work for me. When I need you at the hospital, you will go. When I need you in my bed, you will stay."

I didn't really get a chance to refute his assertions, but it was already irrelevant. I knew I'd follow this man to the moon and back.

"Yes," I reply, more breathily than I wanted to.

"You see, ma petite? You are already mine."

"How could you possibly know that?"

He laughs heartily at my question. "I just kissed you—everything I needed to know about you, I learned from that kiss."

My breath suddenly leaves my body and I wonder if perhaps I just made a bargain with the devil. A fuckhot devil in boots.

**XxX**

When I joined forces with my Master Kingsley, it was with the understanding that I would not only help him as a submissive in his Imperial Collection, but also whenever he or Søren need my professional help as a nurse. While patient privacy and protection are both a part of being a nurse, Kingsley and Søren require an even higher level of silence. They need someone in whom they can have absolute trust. They both saw in me something strong, brave and trustworthy, and I've never done a thing that would betray them. Earning the trust of men who rarely give it away is everything; I'll do anything they ask of me. I know they'd never ask if they didn't have a need for it to be done.

The particular evening I met them was a prime example of the kind of work they needed from me. A young boy tried to commit suicide at the church. Søren needed someone on the inside to watch over Michael with extra vigilance. He also needed me to coordinate the hospital end to ensure no one questioned the family's decision to use a priest for post-suicidal counseling rather than a mental health professional. I still have no idea how Jac knows Kingsley and Søren, but I don't want to know. When I explained to him the arrangements that have been made for Michael, he signed the paper without even reading it. The fact that he's terrified by those two was all I need to really know.

While many of us are born with a hole in our souls, few of us are given an option of how to get it filled in productive ways. We wander through our lives numb and seeking that special something we never seem to find. Some of us, though, are lucky; we find a Kingsley Edge, or a Master Griffin, or a Mick. Something magical happens—kismet—and holes disappear.


End file.
